


The Man and His Savior

by OceanMuse



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure, Canon Related, Gen, Horror, Novelization, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanMuse/pseuds/OceanMuse
Summary: A twenty-year-old man decides to visit an art museum to view the released works of a recently deceased artist. As he wanders the hallways covered with the increasingly unsettling paintings, he is suddenly yanked into a twisted reality of the artist’s own creation that vies to claim his soul – the bridge between the Fabricated World and the real world.





	1. The Notice in the Paper

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the events leading up to Ib saving Garry from Garry's perspective instead of Ib's.  
> The chapters are pretty short, so this isn't an intensive read.

The young man awoke suddenly. He hadn’t even realized that he’d fallen asleep – that was how sleep usually worked. He blinked hard, adjusting to the harsh light illuminating the room, and squinted at the clock across from him – 1:33 PM. The afternoon was young, yet he felt as though the day had already ended. His job interview that morning had seemed to leech the energy right out of him.

He forced himself off the couch and drowsily waked over to the kitchen table where he had thrown the newspaper upon arriving home. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he turned to the local weekly events to see what was going on in the neighborhood. Nothing striking at first appeared: ultimate Frisbee tournament in the park later that week, showings at the theaters, yard sales, _et cetera_. He briefly considered heading to his favorite café, but pushed it out of his head. He had already been there three times that week, so it would be awkward showing up yet again. It didn’t seem like it, but he was actually sensitive to judgement from others. Not only that, but he was prone to embarrassment. Just thinking about the way the barista would look at him if he were to show up for the fourth day in a row made his face flush.

The man then noticed an exhibition opening that day at the Gallery of Visual Art downtown. Seemed that some artist had died recently and his works were now being released to the public. At first, he wasn’t sure. He had been to the Gallery once or twice in the past, but he wasn’t exactly a “patron of the arts” – his apartment, though neat, lacked any extensive wall decorations, not even a family photograph. In fact, he had a rather jaded attitude towards art. He felt as though the very word “art” was thrown around too much, causing it to lose any true meaning. Regardless, he needed to do something to relax and pass the time, and the Gallery was only a few blocks away, so he decided it wouldn’t hurt to go.

Getting up, he assessed his appearance; his attempts to look presentable for his job interview had been ruined while he slept. His tie was loosened, his shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was disheveled. He debated whether or not to retouch his current outfit or just change into something more casual. It _was_ the grand opening of an exhibit, so he could imagine that there would be a large population of upper-class art enthusiasts dressed ostentatiously, vying to purchase the works for prices a few thousand dollars over his lifetime income. However, he figured people would be staring more at the art than his attire. He did his best to smooth his hair, sighing loudly as he noticed a black coloration starting to appear at the roots of his lavender locks, and changed into a faded green T-shirt, brown pants, and his favorite coat.

He grabbed some hard candies on his way out, popping one into his mouth, and as he shut the door behind him he thought, _Hopefully it isn’t crowded there._


	2. The Exhibit

A cold gust of wind slithered through the sleeves of his coat and nipped at his exposed arms underneath. The man shivered to shake it off. With the sun hidden behind the sleepy gray clouds blanketing the sky, the afternoon proved to be quite chilly.

He converged with many other visitors at the foot of the Gallery. Billboards advertising the many exhibits decorated the stairs, but the newest one was causing the most excitement: **THE WORLD OF WEISS GUERTENA!** The man chuckled. He had never even heard of Weiss Guertena.

The expansive foyer hummed with excited chatter. The man weaved his way through the clusters of people aimlessly standing around interjecting dialogue into random conversations and headed over to the reception desk.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the receptionist greeted, his voice raw from probably repeating that same greeting over and over again. “May I help you?”

“Yes, the Guertena exhibit…?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The receptionist coughed quickly into his sleeve. “It’s the hallway to your right. Just follow the masses.”

“Thank you.”

The receptionist gave another cough as a send-off and the man headed out. Drowsiness began to creep back into his head and he reached into pocket to grab another piece of candy. Fishing around, his fingers brushed against something cold and metallic.

_Blast,_ he cursed to himself. _I forgot about my lighter._

Once upon a time, the man was a smoker, but he hadn’t touched a cigarette in two years. While he was quitting, he carried his lighter with him everywhere, hoping that it would “trick” his mind into believing that he had smoked, therefore eliminating his urges. The psychology of it was severely lacking, he realized, but he liked to think it worked. He didn’t need it anymore, so it was annoying that it was still in his pocket. Weapons weren’t allowed in the museum, nor was smoking. He hoped no one would notice.

Passing through the wing’s threshold, he noticed how different the atmosphere was. The loud humming of idle chitchat had vanished, replaced by whispering and murmuring. The foundation seemed relatively new, and the man couldn’t recall the Gallery having this wing before.

He walked up to the receptionist’s desk as a couple were leaving and heading up the stairs to the upper level of the exhibit. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, sir!” the receptionist chirped enthusiastically, a sharp contrast to the previous one’s lethargy. “Welcome to the Weiss Guertena exhibit!”

“Thank you," the man responded. "Is this wing a new addition, or has is always been part of the Gallery? I’ve visited here a few times in the past, and I can’t seem to remember this section of the building.”

“The wing is new, yes,” the receptionist replied. “We do have some vacant wings that are part of the original building, but none of them are big enough to house Guertena’s collection!” He handed the man a pamphlet. “This maps it out. This hallway to your right is the first floor of the exhibit, and these stairs right next to the desk lead to the second floor level.”

The man skimmed the pamphlet. “Alright, thank you.”

“Enjoy your visit!” The receptionist called after him as the man headed down the hallway. He internally rolled his eyes at the thought of all the tax money that went in to constructing an exhibit for a man who he had never even heard of.

 


	3. The World of Weiss Guertena

**_Abyss of the Deep_** was the painting on the floor. **_A world where man will never stand... To realize that world, I decided that I would engrave it within the canvas._** It seemed as if the very floor had fallen away, revealing the murky depths of an ocean trench.

 _I’ll admit that this is rather inspired,_ the man thought. _I wonder how they transported this here._

“I wanted so badly to see this piece with my own eyes!” a young woman in a gray dress whispered to another woman in a pink skirt. “It’s completely different from seeing it in a book. The atmosphere is just so... just... like... you know?!"

“Oh my gosh, I feel like it’s sucking me in!” the pink-skirted woman responded.

 _Goodness_ , the man thought. _This Guertena guy had a book, too?_

Behind the floor painting was a large painting of a boy playing the piano while being scolded by a woman _._ ** _A Well-Meaning Hell._**

 _So, this boy doesn’t like piano,_ the man figured. _But his mother insists that it’s “for his own good.”_ He chuckled. _I wonder if the artist was inspired by a personal experience to paint this._

“Take a look at this painting, honey,” a nearby man said to a young girl, probably his daughter. “Astounding, isn't it? I bet this is your first time seeing such a huge painting!" The girl didn’t respond. She simply stared blankly up at the painting.

 _Same here, kid,_ the man chuckled to himself.

He passed by several other paintings and sculptures, glancing over them quickly: **_Beach Isolation_ _,_ _Horizon View_ _,_ _Glass of Antipodes_ _,_ _Twinkling of Crystals and Stars_ _,_ _The Sky Seen from a Hill_ _,_ _The Coughing Man_ _._** None of them demanded much attention. He then took notice of a giant rose sculpture. Some of its large red petals were scattered around the base of its thick stem that wielded large thorns. **_Embodiment of Spirit_** was etched in the plaque.

 _Flowers of the soul?_ That made sense. He had read about many cultures where flowers were associated with personalities. He looked down at its description. **_Beautiful at a glance, but if you get too close, it will induce pain. It can only bloom in wholesome bodies._** _So, roses represent wholesome people?_ _Interesting._

"Boy, it looks like the slightest jolt could make that stalk part snap into a million pieces,” a man in a gray coat standing next to him mumbled. “If that happened, I wonder how much I'd have to pay… Oh geez, that's scary.”

The man headed to the second level. A painting at the top caught his eye and he approached it for a closer examination. It was a man. He was upside-down, hanging by a red rope tied around his ankles. His gray shirt was falling off slightly and his arms waved around. His face had no readable emotion, and his eyes were nothing but dark sockets. He read the plaque. **_The Hanged Man._**

 _What an unsettling painting,_ he thought. _This Guertena guy sure was… idiosyncratic._

He passed by a few more sculptures and paintings, only stopping at a few that caught his eye.

 _ **Death of the Individual**_ , a trio of black, headless statues wearing identical dresses of different colors.

 _Humph, I refuse to call this art,_ he thought bitterly. _I could easily replicate this with some mannequins from a department store window._

 _ **The Lady in Red**_ , a portrait of a woman with flowing brown hair and piercing eyes as red as her dress.

 _Portraits of random unknown women are far from original in this day-and-age,_ he criticized. _If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all._

None of the paintings were really grabbing his attention. He couldn’t stare at them for as long as some of the other of the visitors. In fact, he couldn’t help but stare at some of the visitors more than the actual paintings. He noticed how most of them were dressed. His attire was nice, but it wasn’t at the same level of formality. He felt his face starting to heat up.

 _I really should have worn a suit,_ he thought sheepishly.


	4. The Fabricated World

The man noticed two visitors indiscreetly looking at him, causing his face to become even redder. He quickly turned away and headed for the east end of the second floor. His preoccupation with his outfit and his embarrassment was then interrupted by a large painting – probably the largest painting in the entire exhibit. It nearly covered the entire wall it was hung on. He was surprised that none of the other visitors seemed interested in it.

He looked at the plaque underneath it. _**The Fabricated World.**_ Looking up at it, he tried to comprehend what was going on in it. A mixture of somber colors was splattered onto the canvas. He thought he could make out some dark figures in it, but he wasn’t sure.

 _My, this is disorienting,_ he thought.

As he stared at it, he began to feel a chill creep up his body. Unlike the one he experienced while walking to the Gallery, this one moved slowly, its touch giving him goosebumps. In front of his eyes, the painting began to move. The colors swirled, the dark figures began to move. It was almost as if he was looking through a window, observing the life that moved on the other side. All the movement of the colors, the swirling of black mist-like figures, the sounds of their voices, like whispers…

The lights overhead flickered.

“Huh?” he said, the painting’s hypnotic hold dissolving. _I’m sure I just felt something rather strange just then. Did I miss something?_ He didn’t hear anything.

In fact, he didn’t hear _anything_.

The drone of the Gallery’s visitors had ceased. The air was still.

The man stepped quickly away from the large painting, which hung motionless on the wall. The hallways were completely empty. _Where is everyone?_ Uneasiness began to lurch through his body. _Is there something going on?_

He hurried down the steps to the exhibit lobby. The cheerful receptionist had also vanished along with the rest of the visitors. The emergency doors of the hallway leading to the main lobby were shut. He rushed over towards them and tried to push them open, but they didn’t budge. _What’s the meaning of this?_

Suddenly, the lights went out.

 “Hello?” he called out as he wandered down the first floor hallway. “Anybody here?” He almost tripped over the red rope surrounding the _**Abyss in the Deep** _ painting on the floor. Looking down at it, he thought he saw a large shadow swim through it. Convincing himself that it was just nerves, he headed down the hallway to his right, passing the _**Embodiment of Spirit**_ sculpture. A cough came from behind him.

“AH!” he screamed and whirled around. “Who’s there?! Hello?!” No one responded. His heart pounded in his ears, and his breath became short and shaky, and his head buzzed with adrenaline.

 _Get a hold of yourself,_ he thought, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. _I’m sure that there is a logical explanation for what’s going on._ He knew that this was a lie, that there was no explanation for any of this, and that something horrible was going on. Unable to suppress the feeling of helplessness, he looped back around the exhibit and made his way back upstairs.


	5. The Abandoned Canvas

“Hello? Hello?”

The man wearily made his way up. He noticed that no light was coming from the window at the top of the staircase. _It’s only the early afternoon, so why is it so dark?_

A dark figure passed by the window. His heart jumped. There was no way that anyone could be walking there – there was no roof or balcony.  “Is someone there?” he called, stepping closer to the window. He peered through the glass, but could make out nothing. The figure darted back in front of the window and banged on it. “AH!” he screamed, falling to the ground. "What is going on?!"

He noticed a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, and he jumped up. _**The Hanged Man**_ painting was to his right. The man originally in the painting was gone, and the red rope that had been tied around his ankles hung abandoned, swaying slightly, as if a breeze was passing by.

“What? How?” He inched closer, his mouth agape in disbelief. “That’s not possible…”

Suddenly, the rope lashed out of the frame, wrapping itself around his ankles. It yanked sharply, and before the man could react, he was on the floor being dragged towards the painting.

“AAH!” he screamed, clawing for anything to grab onto. “LET GO OF ME!” His feet began to pass through the frame, and the rest of his body followed. “PLEASE, NO!” As his head passed through, he grabbed onto the canvas frame. The rope’s tugging paused, as if it realized what he was doing, and gave a strong yank.

He let out one more cry as his fingers slipped off and he plunged into the canvas.

 


	6. The Lost Key in the Foreign Vase

Before he could even comprehend what was going on, the man was hanging upside-down. The blood began rushing into his head, pounding pain into his temples.

“Please, put me down!” he cried out. The rope was wrapped tightly, so there was no way he could untie it. He had nothing to cut it, either.

As he watched a piece of candy fall out of his pocket, he remembered his lighter and hoped that it hadn’t fallen out. Miraculously, it rested precariously on the folds of his jacket, and he pulled it out. It would take him ages to burn through the rope completely, but he didn’t have any other options. Igniting it, he pulled himself up and held the flame against the nylon. The rope suddenly recoiled and released him. He hit the ground, and the rope retreated back through the ceiling.

“Ow…” he moaned, rubbing his back to extinguish the pain. Looking around, he seemed to be in a completely different room of the Gallery.

 _Actually,_ he thought uneasily. _I don’t think I’m even_ in _the Gallery…_

In the room were two large statues, _**Uh**_ and _**Ah**_ – two of the most uninspired names that he had even seen in his entire life – and five paintings. He recognized one of the paintings as _ **Th** ** _e_ Lady in Red** _ from the Guertena exhibit.

 _Why are Guertena’s painting’s here?_ He wondered. _Are they somehow connected to all of this? It would make sense, seeing as I’ve never had this happen to me in any of the Gallery’s other exhibits, as well as the fact that one of Guertena’s paintings assaulted me._

Next to the painting’s frame was a small red key hanging from a hook. He took it and successfully used it to open a red door on the other side of the room, discovering some kind of library. The door swung shut behind him, taking the key he had left in the lock with it. Opposite to him was yet another door, which he quickly discovered was _also_ locked. He didn’t understand why everything was locked when it was quite clear that no one ever came through the area. Unsure of what to do, he began searching through the bookcases, yanking out books to find the key. One such book titled _Girls in the Canvas_ caught his attention, and he paused his investigation to skim through the first few pages.

_**The women here become very troublesome when they acquire a desire for humans. They’ll always stubbornly chase things until they are satisfied, it seems… Anywhere, everywhere, to the ends of the earth… But if they have one weakness, it’s that they can’t open doors on their own.** _

_Well, that’s unsettling,_ the man thought as he resumed his search. _Where exactly are these women, anyway? I haven’t seen a single soul since this whole fiasco started._

His noticed an unassuming book jutting out awkwardly from a bookcase he hadn’t searched. Suspicious, he pulled it out. A click come from the door. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Through the door was a small foyer. Hanging was a painting of a vase, and resting just below it on a small table was the vase’s real-life counterpart. He approached the strange scene for a closer examination. **_Eternal Blessing_** was the name of the painting.

 _I_ would _find this painting to be rather lazy, since it’s merely a drawing of commonplace house décor, but the colors are quite appealing._

Looking down into the vase the painting was inspired by, he noticed it was filled with water. _That’s odd. Why would this vase have water in it, but no flowers?_

He dipped his fingers into the water. It was cool to the touch, and it felt rather pleasant on his skin. Swirling his fingers around, he brushed against something hard. _What’s this?_ Reaching in, he pulled out a small key. _I suppose I’ll have to find the door that this goes to. Hopefully it’s an exit._ Looking around, he noticed a door at the end of the corridor to his left. Assuming that this was the door the key belonged to, he headed towards it. Strangely, the door had no keyhole, and when he twisted the knob, it opened. _Hmm, I guess I was mistaken._


	7. The Rose and its Theives

The door swung open and the man headed inside. The room was rather large and seemed to go nowhere, until he noticed a door further in. As he stepped inside, he noticed a splotch of bright color in the corner his eye. Turning to look, he saw a flower sitting in a vase. It seemed rather peculiar and out-of-place, so the man investigated. It was a fresh, untouched rose at the peak of its bloom. Its petals bore a hue identical to that of the sky on a perfectly cloudless day. Its stem was practically straight, with no knobs, thorns, or other imperfections. _Why, this is the most divine flower I have ever seen_ , he thought. He lifted his head to examine the two flyers that were nailed to the wall next to the table.

_**When the rose rots, so too will you rot away.** _

_**You and the rose are unified. Know the weight of your life.** _

He found the messages unsettling, but the rose’s beauty was too powerful to resist. He reached for it, his fingertips gingerly clasping the delicate stem. He let out a sigh of relief as a feeling of closure and satisfaction enveloped him. It was as if everything he had done upon being dragged through the painting was all part of an effort to reach that moment, and he felt accomplished and content.

An unusual sound snapped him back into reality. It sounded as if something was scraping at the wall, and, judging from the volume of the noise, it was occurring right in front of him. He watched in surprise as letters began to carve themselves into the wall in front of his very eyes.

_**Thief.** _

_What’s_ that _supposed to mean?_ The man thought with a mixture of indignity and fear. _This place holds an art collection that is most likely worth a fortune, yet you – whoever you are – are upset by my taking of a simple flower?_ He gingerly placed the rose in his coat pocket. _You should be grateful that I haven’t “stolen” anything else!_

He turned away from the accusation and headed for the door in the room that he had noticed from initially entering the room. _Besides, if you didn’t want me taking anything, you shouldn’t have dragged me down here in the first place._ The small key fit into the lock and he entered the room. All he saw was a sculpture of a man sleeping under a primitive tent with a sign next to it reading, _**Forsaken Shelter Under Cloth**_. The man grew frustrated. _All these dead ends! I'm going to go mad in here!_

He stepped out of the room and heard a strange noise emitted from his right. He peered around the corner.

It was a portrait of a woman similar to the _**Lady in Red**_ , but her eyes and dress bore a pretty blue hue, hence the name on the plaque, _**Lady in Blue**_.

 _Lady in Blue?_ The man scoffed. _No more original than your red counterpart._

Suddenly, the woman in the painting lifted her head and stared right into his eyes. He watched her forlorn and aloof gaze through the canvas transform into a feral and mad stare. Before the man could even react, she launched herself off the wall and knocked him to the ground.

“AAH!” he screamed as the monster scratched and clawed at him madly, moaning and growling. It reached for his rose and yanked off several of its petals.

Grunting in pain, he pushed it off of him. It crawled towards him rabidly, dragging itself with its arms. He stumbled backwards and dragged himself through the room with the tent. The Lady in Blue leaped onto his and tried to grab his damaged rose. He tried pushing it back, but it grabbed onto the stem and sunk its teeth into his hand.

“AAH!”

Releasing his rose, he kicked the monster off, rolled onto his stomach, and hoisted himself to his feet. He slammed the door behind him, locking it with the key he had left in the lock, and sprinted out of the room. Despite the horror of the rabid half-woman, all he could think about was his stolen rose. He became gripped with anxiety, imagining the monster tearing it to shreds, destroying its beauty, ending its life. He ran as far down the hall as he could before finally giving in to the severe cramp in his chest. At first, he thought he was having a heart attack, as it seemed completely justified given the circumstances. However, with each stab of pain, an image of the blue rose flashed before his eyes.

_**When the rose rots, so too will you rot away.** _

The cramp in his chest intensified, as if it was being torn apart. He doubled over in pain.

_**You and the rose are unified. Know the weight of your life.** _

“N…no…”

 


	8. The Man and his Savior

He was face-down on the floor, his body tensed, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Ugh…”

The pain had spread to his entire body. He had never felt anything like it. It wreaked havoc on his entire body. He barely had enough strength to let out sounds of pain.

“…Ugh…”

He could barely think – the pain had almost forced his mind out of his head. As each second passed, the pain only got worse. He could feel his strength, his very life ebbing away.

“…It… hurts… terribly…”

_Why is this happening?_

He felt extreme pressure on his shoulders and the pain aggravated.

“No… St-stop…”

_Please... no..._

He could feel everything in his body becoming numb. A soft ringing enveloped his mind, along with the weakening pound of his heart. He knew what was happening.

_No… I don’t want to die…_

Suddenly, the numbness seemed to melt, creating a cool, liquid sensation on his skin. The pain alleviated into a slight tingling feeling.

“...What’s this?" the man said aloud. "The pain is just… gone?”

The ringing in his ears stopped, and he could hear his own breathing. His heartbeat strengthened. He brought his arms to his sides and hoisted his upper body up. When he lifted his head, he came face-to-face with the red eyes of the monster from the  _ **Lady in Blue**_ painting. He shrieked and threw himself back. “Get away from me! Th-there’s nothing left for you to take, I tell you!”

The monster quickly got to its feet, and the man quickly realized that he was mistaken. The woman in front of him was not from a ‘Lady in Blue’ portrait. In fact, the woman in front of him was not even a woman, but a little girl. Her large, round eyes peeked out from behind her brown bangs.

“Who… or what are you?” the man asked. After all, she could have been another monster, just in a different, more unassuming form. He was ready for anything at this point. Examining her suspiciously, he saw in her right hand the blue rose that the Lady in Blue had stolen from him. “My rose!” he gasped, clamoring to his feet. The little girl glanced down at the rose and timidly offered it to him. He gingerly took it from her hands and noticed that it glowed with new health, all ten of its petals restored. “Oh my,” he said, feeling guilty that he had frightened the girl. “I’m terribly sorry for shouting at you.” He then took notice of the girl’s left hand clinging tightly to her body, clutching onto a rose of a most beautiful crimson hue. “That rose you have,” he began. “It’s similar to mine.” Thinking hard, he felt as though he had seen the girl before. Her distinctive blank stare was very familiar. “Could you be someone from the Gallery?” The girl’s eyebrows rose, and she nodded. The man felt relieved. “Oh, thank goodness! There’s someone here besides me!” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. “It’s now safe to say that neither one of us is crazy, right?” The girl looked down, but said nothing. The air between the two began to grow heavy with awkwardness.

 _I’m no expert on child behavior,_ the man thought. _But this one is rather odd._

“So,” he said, trying to dissolve the uneasiness and figure out how to speak to the girl. “Do you have any idea how things got to this point?”

 _Oh yes, brilliant!_ He mentally slapped himself. _Ask the little girl if she comprehends the situation that you don’t!_

“No,” the little girl said, her sudden vocalization startling the man. “I was looking at this big painting in the Gallery, and then everyone was gone.”

The man leaned against the wall. “I see,” he sighed. “It seems your situation was much like mine, I must say.” He twirled his rose in his hand. “Not to mention, our roses…”

“The scary blue lady was picking the petals off of your rose.”

“Ah,” he said, confirming his suspicions about his pain being associated with his rose. “When my rose was losing its petals, I experienced great pain.” He sighed and placed the rose in his pocket. “I thought I was a goner then. Thank you for getting it back. You saved me.” The girl’s cheeks turned red, and she looked down at her shoes. “Well, then,” he said as he lifted himself off the wall. “With that aside, I believe it would be best if we searched for a way out of here. I think I’ll go mad if I stay in this dreadful place for too long, wouldn’t you agree?” The girl nodded.

 _Is that it?_ He asked himself. _Am I forgetting something that I should’ve added to this conversation, or is this a good stopping point?_

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “We haven’t even properly introduced! How foolish of me!” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ll start, I suppose. My name is Garry. And you are…?”

The girl smiled shyly. “I’m Ib.”

“Ib, you say.” He paused for a moment. _I can’t just leave her here. It’s dangerous, especially for a child._ He turned back to Ib. “I think it would be best if we stuck together, yes?” Ib nodded. “Alright, let’s go, Ib.”

Garry turned to begin blazing the trail when suddenly a painting of a poorly drawn ‘smiley face’ hanging on the wall next to him stuck out its tongue and spat at him. He shrieked and fell to the ground. He heard a giggle behind him and turned to see Ib attempting to stifle her amusement. _Blast_ , he cursed. _How valiant I must seem to her._ He jumped to his feet and straightened his coat, his face getting hot. “I-I was just a bit startled,” he stammered. “Really, that’s all!”

Ib giggled again, no longer trying to conceal it. “Okay, Mr. Garry.”

“Anyway, let’s keep going, and watch out for such bizarre things as that!” He then sighed and headed down the hall with Ib following close behind him. _Mr. Garry, huh?_


End file.
